


The One Where Eddie Dances (...Naked)

by camerasparring



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Anal Sex, Barebacking, Bottom Richie Tozier, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Foot... Stuff, Friends AU, M/M, Minor Mike Hanlon/Stanley Uris, Misunderstandings, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Top Eddie Kaspbrak, just a little, mild exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:28:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26016541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camerasparring/pseuds/camerasparring
Summary: Eddie’s lighting some candles —very carefully— when the beat starts to pick up. Then he gets a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the back of Stan and Mike’s door, and thinks,Fuck it. I deserve to have a little fun.He’s young! Kind of. He’s alone!He just needs to let go, like Mike said, so he takes off his underwear and lets himself move to the music.The probability of this back-firing is very low.Right?--Or: Eddie decides to have some fun, and Richie conveniently lives across the street.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 57
Kudos: 253





	The One Where Eddie Dances (...Naked)

**Author's Note:**

> This is another Friends AU, but is not really connected to the Prom Video fic I wrote. It's a different "universe" with a lot of similarities because... well. Friends. 
> 
> Just a fun little PWP-ish that I spit out in two days while I'm deep in miniseries-Reddie-plot-land. 
> 
> Thank you to the GC and my dear [Andie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adaptation/pseuds/omniocularz) for beta'ing! 
> 
> (I feel the need to say, if someone is actually taking my fic as some sort of suggestion, PLEASE practice safe sex.)

Despite his penchant for irritability surrounding the actions of other people, Eddie actually loves having roommates. 

Living with strangers would be a crapshoot, but these are people he’s known for years. He trusts them. He loves them. He knows them. He yells at them for putting marshmallows on sweet potatoes and knows they’ll keep wanting him around. They have their faults, but Eddie likes waking up and going to sleep knowing his thoughts on the bastardization of classic desserts with excessive amounts of sugar won’t go unheard. 

Stan takes far too long in the shower, burns everything but pizza and refuses to let Eddie sit in the most comfortable recliner in the apartment— but he’s impeccably clean. Mike leaves his clothes everywhere, adds far too much salt to everything, and draws dumb little romantic messages to Stan on the bathroom mirror Eddie’s pathetically single ass has to see— but his laugh is healing, and he texts Eddie whenever there’s a new bug documentary on the Discovery channel so they can crack a couple beers and watch it together while Stan grumbles from the kitchen. 

Neither of them bug him about dating— he’s been on a few, thank you very much, but most men in the greater New York area are… just… not what he’s looking for— and they sit down monthly to go over bills, groceries and roommate grievances. It’s adult. It’s mature. And it’s the most relaxed Eddie has ever been in his life. 

“You could be _more_ relaxed,” Stan insists, suitcase in hand, shoving his sunglasses onto his face. Mike claps a sympathetic hand on Eddie’s shoulder before joining Stan at the door. 

“I am _not_ throwing a party just because you two are gone for one night.” Eddie crosses his arms over his chest like a child. “I’m not in high school.” 

Stan rolls his eyes like a long-suffering adult. 

“I didn’t say to throw a party, I said to invite a guy over. A few guys, who knows. Whatever you’re into, I don’t need to know your business.” He pauses, then adds, “Just please don’t fuck on the balcony,” before checking his watch yet again. He’s never been tardy for a flight his whole life— he beat Mike to the airport for their honeymoon— but stress lines wrinkle his face nevertheless. 

Eddie’s already light-headed in disagreement. He doesn’t need to invite anyone over. He has to get up early for his own flight tomorrow; the reason he’s hanging back is to get some work done before he leaves for the _destination_ London wedding his less-mature-less-adult friends have decided to throw. 

He’s about to say as much when Mike raises two calming hands in Eddie’s direction. It actually helps, but Mike doesn’t need to know that. 

“Just throw on some music for yourself, man. Eat a whole bag of Cheetos. Dance in the nude.” Mike grins when Eddie shivers in disgust. “Just let go a little.” 

Eddie heaves a breath and looks around at all the open space he has to himself for the night. 

“ _Fine_. Maybe I’ll… finally learn yoga or something.” 

Stan snorts. Mike pushes him out the door before he can say anything. 

Eddie watches them go, giving a pathetic wave he realizes too late they can no longer see. 

He stares down at his phone and hovers a finger over the Spotify app. It _has_ been years since he’s had a night alone. Living with his mother all those years didn’t exactly afford him privacy— especially not with her breathing down his neck every time his door was closed. Now, well into his thirties, he _should_ be comfortable being alone, right? 

So he starts slow. Takes off his shirt, see how that feels. He works out like this all the time! No big deal. He walks around the apartment, tending to the extra clutter, vacuuming. Returning home from a long trip to a clean home is always nice. Eventually he drops his pants, and gives in and starts up the playlist Richie made him so he could “finally pull the music snob stick out of his ass.” 

He’s lighting some candles — _very carefully_ — when the beat starts to pick up. Then he gets a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the back of Stan and Mike’s door, and thinks, _Fuck it. I deserve to have a little fun_. 

He’s young! Kind of!

He’s alone! 

He just needs to let go, like Mike said, so he takes off his underwear and lets himself move to the music.

The probability of this back-firing is very low. 

Right?

  
  


**

Despite the utter and complete sense of satisfaction Richie feels when surrounded by other people — when they laugh at his jokes, or hum thoughtfully at his ponderings, or give him any bit of attention whatsoever — he really does like living alone. 

The deal was far too good to pass up: an affordable, furnished apartment with room for an office; a giant bay window to collect and appropriately nurture all of his plants; and better yet, right across the street from some of his best friends in the world. In the nine months he’s been here, the new place has exceeded his expectations in more ways than one. His plants are thriving. He’s more productive here than he is at the office. The view of the city, especially at night, has impressed all… one of the guys he’s brought home after a date. It didn’t impress him enough to spend the night, but Richie chalks that up to incompatibility, not the perfect apartment. 

And, most importantly for his social and mental health— that same view affords him a small peek into the daily lives of Stan, Mike and Eddie.

He’s not a _creep_ or anything, it’s just makes Richie feel better to know his friends are still… there. Still kicking. Still having their monthly roommate meetings like nerds, because Stan says it “fosters peace” and “gets them on the same page” and that Richie wouldn’t “understand because he’s never happily cohabitated with another person since his parents forced him out at twenty-five and told him to fend for himself while sending him monthly care packages of floss and detergent to make sure he’s still cleaning himself, apparently.” 

It’s not like it’s a thing. It’s just part of Richie’s daily routine. Go through his mail. Water the plants. Make sure Stan hasn’t burned the place down trying to grill steak on the balcony again. It’s a safety measure. 

On this particular Friday night, however, said well-perfected routine has slipped his mind in favor of a late night nap on his desk. 

Richie is _not_ a napper by nature; in fact, they disagree with him quite thoroughly most of the time. The concept of a nap always sounds so satisfying, but when put into practice, he often wakes feeling like he’s crossed the threshold of his own death and must answer for his sleepy sins on the other side. This time, the summoner of dreams and a pool of drool on his student’s ungraded papers is a slideshow on literature he promised he’d look over for his colleague— before remembering that Bill teaches the academic equivalent of a straight male circle-jerk for Yeats and Thoreau. 

Woken by his own snores, and what comes dangerously close to a papercut on his bottom lip, Richie jerks stiffly in his desk chair before overcompensating on his angles and almost tipping over backward a second later. He blinks back the sleep and sees the clock flash a neon 8:04pm.

“Fuuuuuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck you Bill_ ,” he hisses, gathering up his papers and dumping them into his briefcase so he can look them over on the plane instead. His groggy feet take him to the kitchen to fill his watering can, which he spills all over the counter, and after ten minutes of soaking up all the moisture between his wooden cabinets, he’s finally ready to give his plants some well-earned love. 

“I’m sorry I’m so grumpy, my little green friends,” he tells them softly, rummaging hands through Lord Staniel’s ever-expanding leaves to pinch back the growth. Stan had bought it for him years ago now, amused by the Wandering Jew label— so Richie had named the plant in his honor, considering… well. It’s one of the most finicky plants he’s ever had the pleasure of tending to. Quite the likeness, indeed. 

Richie mumbles as he makes his way, from left to right. 

“I blame the bane of the Literature department. Couldn’t even add some fucking Whitman to keep my head above water.” 

Richie scans through each plant: watering, tending, checking for dead spots or suspicious growths. Lord Staniel is hanging in alright, but the orchid on the end is blushing something too close to a blood red, so Richie moves it further into the corner to avoid the light for the weekend. Just when he’s considering if it’s too high maintenance to ask a neighbor come in and check on them while he’s gone, a flash of movement from across the street gets his attention. 

When he looks up to see the source of the commotion, he’s met with a fully nude Eddie Kaspbrak, dancing across his living room, shaking his bare ass for the whole world — or at least their little corner of the Village — to see.

He almost overturns the entire watering can onto an unsuspecting row of peonies. 

“What— what the _fuck_ —” he hisses again, ducking onto his knees, below the window pane, because if he can see Eddie— what the fuck he can see Eddie _so clearly_ he can make out the shape of his— then Eddie could almost definitely see him _leering_. 

He plops onto the floor and takes a second to collect himself while out of view.

 _You’re just sleepy_ , he tells himself, fresh off his first unexpected nap since he left his parent’s house. _That can’t possibly be your friend, the uptight Eddie Kaspbrak, dancing around in his birthday suit on a Friday night_. 

...right? Maybe it was just some random nude guy! Maybe Richie was looking into the wrong apartment, and that wasn’t Eddie’s surprisingly tan, lean, wiry-muscled body, or Eddie’s abdomen outlined into a rough six-pack, or even Eddie’s wild, dark gathering of hair trailing below his bellybutton, leading the way to what _definitely_ wasn’t Eddie’s giant cock, bouncing happily between his legs.

No. It was probably someone else. 

Steeling himself, Richie pulls at the ledge until he can peer back out the window. He blinks. And blinks. And blinks. 

But Eddie’s still there. Still dancing. Still naked. 

Still… _fuck_. Gorgeous. 

Richie sits back down on the floor, turning so his back is pressed to the wall. All his pores begin to eke sweat. He tries to fan himself and ends up spilling water all down the crotch of his pants. 

“This isn’t happening, Tozier. You’re hallucinating,” he whispers. His fingers grip hard around the watering can as the other hand wipes at the wet spot, before he realizes he probably doesn’t need anymore stimulation in that area. 

“It’s Bill’s powerpoint. It spun you into such a fervor of boredom that you’ve begun to go crazy, and now you _think_ you’re seeing the guy you’ve crushed on since childhood naked and shimmying around like an exotic dancer but it. Is. Not. Real.” 

Richie shudders in a breath. He needs to talk to someone. He needs to confirm this is not actually happening. 

Reaching up onto his desk, he makes contact with his phone and pulls it down to unlock it. But when he’s met with his contact list, he has absolutely no idea who the fuck he would text about this. 

Bev and Ben are probably deep in the throes of wedding preparation. Stan and Mike are either already on an international flight, or about to board sometime soon. There’s no way his sister wants to know about this. Bill’s too tragically straight to help him out of this bind, and he doesn’t know Eddie. But apparently neither does Richie!

Richie’s always prided himself on knowing Eddie the _best_ . They grew up together, for Christ’s sake. They lived on the same block. Richie knew all of Eddie’s quirks and Eddie knew Richie’s in turn. Richie thought he knew every in and out of the tiny little man’s brain, maybe even better than Eddie knows it himself. Everyone’s always said they compliment each other perfectly; and on the other side of the coin, they know exactly how to push each other’s buttons. It’s what makes their friendship so great. And what makes Richie’s crush on him so fucking _painful_. 

But that’s beside the point. Milling over, yet again, how desperately and unattainably in love with his best friend he is does not help Richie in this situation.

Unless…

Richie bites at his lip and shifts his legs on the floor so his bad knee straightens. Eddie _knew_ Richie would be home grading papers tonight. They’ve discussed it ad nauseam, considering they’re taking the same flight tomorrow. Eddie called him almost a dozen times to “get the plan straight” and “make sure Richie was appropriately packed” and “just to check again, you dumbass, and don’t forget your passport.” 

And of _course_ , Eddie knows that Richie can see into his living room. Richie makes it a point to tease Eddie about the scrunched up little face he makes when he’s doing sit ups in the middle of the area rug. Eddie had almost objected completely to Richie living across the street for that very reason. And with the fucking _lights on_ , Eddie’s basically a naked beacon in the night. 

Richie pushes himself up with a hand, just to check. 

Yep. Still naked. Still dancing. 

He lets his gaze linger this time, watching the slow, pulsing rhythm of Eddie’s hips, how clenched tight Eddie’s eyes are, the small smile turning at his lips, and he feels a bolt of confidence course through him.

Does Eddie… _want_ him to see?

Eddie’s been out for a few years now, only a further few more than Richie himself. They didn’t do it together, by any means, considering Eddie was still living with his mother and Richie was still deep in some pattern of self-loathing that only years of therapy could hope to help him recover from. Eddie’s now been through his own bout of therapy, but the two of them don’t often discuss their shared sexuality, nor anything about their dating lives. 

But Richie has… wondered.

Because sometimes Eddie will do things that make even Richie — the king of sexual innuendo and blunt humor — become the humanized form of a giant, gay question mark. Like sometimes Richie will make a joke, and Eddie’s hand will smack at his shoulder, or his chest, or heaven forbid his thigh, and then _stay_ for a few seconds longer than feels innocent. Or sometimes Eddie will look at him while they’re eating, all exasperated and fond, and reach over with a napkin to wipe some excess food off of Richie’s cheek. Or _sometimes_ , Eddie will show up in the evening with an already-popped bag of popcorn and a new streaming suggestion, and say something like, “How about a night in with your favorite asshole?”, and Richie will open the door wider to usher him inside, and Eddie will throw himself onto the couch like it’s where he belongs. 

And sometimes Richie lets himself sit next to Eddie on the couch, or next to him at dinner, or across from him in the booth at their favorite bar and… get lost in it. Just for a second. 

And maybe Eddie was lost in it, too. Maybe this is Eddie’s way of going balls to the wall (so to speak) with his feelings and letting Richie know. Maybe Eddie’s just as crazy as Richie’s always told him he is.

And maybe Richie’s finally ready to do something about it. 

Richie watches the effortless slide of Eddie’s body and lets his thoughts linger farther than they normally do. He imagines knocking on Eddie’s door. Eddie, naked and flushed and panting, smiling and groaning out a “Finally you got the clue,” and fisting his hand in the front of Richie’s shirt. Dragging him into a fierce and fiery kiss, their bodies shaking together like leaves, rolling together like Eddie’s doing now, a precursor of what’s to come. Eddie tearing off Richie’s clothes to match him, pressing them chest to ankle, throwing him down on the couch, taking what he can get and Richie will let him have it. Let him have it all. 

Maybe Richie doesn’t know Eddie as well as he thinks he does. 

Before he can think better of it, Richie rockets off the floor, grabs his keys out of the bowl, throws on his usual plaid button up and sets off across the street. 

What’s the worst that could happen?

**

Eddie barely hears the knock on the door over the loud thumping of Ariana Grande, but when he does, he’s met with two simultaneously horrible realizations:

 _Fuck, it’s the neighbors_ , and—

 _Double fuck, I’m listening to_ Ariana Grande. 

He throws himself at his phone to pause it and heads toward the door before doubling back to wrap a blanket around his naked body so he doesn’t give Dana an eyeful. He’s got a nice body, but he doesn’t need anybody to get the wrong idea. Or any idea at all. 

Already awash in embarrassment, he checks the peephole and sees Richie standing out in the hallway, staring down at the floor and shuffling his feet. Eddie breaks into a fully body sweat. 

What the ever-loving _fuck_?

“Richie?” he says through the door, banging his head quietly against the frame. He hears Richie snicker through the wood.

“Yours truly.” 

“What—” Eddie stops to take a breath. He pulls the blanket tighter around his body and wishes he had taken the time to get dressed instead. “Do you need something?”

“Uhhh,” Richie stutters, then takes a pause so long Eddie almost re-checks the peep-hole. “Do you _want_ me t-to need— fuck, Eddie, can you just let me in already? Jesus, this door’s been locked like twice since you moved in, who am I, Ed McMahon?” 

“What the fuck,” Eddie breathes, hiking the blanket up around his shoulders. He takes great care in cracking open the door, only to be met with Richie’s huge, cheesy grin. “What does that even mean?”

“The sweepstakes!” 

Eddie frowns. “Why wouldn’t I open the door to a giant-ass check?” 

Richie’s mouth pulls into a silent “O,” his eyes falling slack a few inches to the right of where Eddie is behind the door, naked and shivering, from the adrenaline and the chill of the hallway sneaking through the gap. When Richie snaps out of it, his voice is low, and stacked with nerves. 

“Are you gonna invite me in or not?”

Eddie’s not sure what the hell is going on, other than the fact that he’s currently naked under Mike’s grandmother’s quilt, which is unfortunately very loose-knit, and now the guy he _definitely_ does _not_ have feelings for is asking to come inside his apartment. 

To be alone. Together. 

“I thought you had to grade papers,” Eddie says, stalling. Richie blinks at him, his eyes gone a bit wide. It’s then Eddie notices a pink flush across his cheeks. 

“I… finished?” 

Eddie squints. Richie pumps his eyebrows. Eddie’s mouth pops open, gaping around words that won’t come. He doesn’t really have an excuse, per se; he’s not really _doing_ anything other than rather acrobatically jumping around the apartment by himself to Top 40. There’s a sense of freedom in it— it doesn’t matter how ridiculous he looks, or feels, because he’s _alone_ , and he can do what he wants. He’s not sure why he’s hesitating. Other than the fact that he’d have to duck into the bedroom to dress, and of course, explain to Richie why he isn’t dressed in the first place.

But showers exist. He can make something up. 

He looks back to Richie, whose eyebrows are still enacting some form of the samba over his giant forehead. And then there’s… that. 

Something about dancing, feeling his own body, his soft cock bouncing between his legs had made him feel— well. _Something_. And that’s still seeping in his veins, alighting the tips of his fingers with a confidence he’s not used to experiencing. So with Richie — fucking _Richie_ , who he’s crushed on since forever, who he hoped would take his coming out as an opportunity to actually _do something about it_ , but who, in the end, just patted him on the back with a congratulations and kept on eating Cornflakes like nothing had happened — it’s a bit… loaded. Eddie might do something stupid. 

Eddie might throw this blanket on the ground and climb Richie like a tree. A tree wearing drawstring pants that look like they’re—

“Are your _pants_ wet?” Eddie asks, and Richie’s eyes snap down to his crotch. Then Eddie realizes he’s staring pretty pointedly at where Richie’s dick is located, and flips his gaze to chipping wood of the doorframe. 

“Uh, yeah, gardening mishap, you know how it is,” he says, brushing at the spot. “Maybe I can come in and… get cleaned up?” he drawls, and when Eddie looks back to him, the fucker is _biting his lip_. It breaks Eddie’s resolve. 

“Just get the fuck in here,” he says, slamming the door open and stalking back into the apartment. When he whirls around, Richie is sauntering inside like it’s the first time he’s seen the place. He even _whistles_. 

“Nice place you got here,” Richie says. Eddie momentarily forgets he’s naked. 

“What… are you talking—”

A shoe flies straight past his head. 

Richie slaps a hand over his mouth, his socked foot still hanging in the air. “Oh, shit, sorry, that thing got some _height_ —”

“Did you just _flip_ your shoe at me?” Eddie huffs, pulling the blanket up around him again, his chest heating in confusion. Richie’s eyes are dark. Eddie’s stomach flips angrily. 

“I was just getting comfortable,” Richie says, and then he fucking _winks_. Eddie glances behind him, just to make sure he’s not missing someone else in the apartment, someone Richie _must_ be looking at because he’s currently _smoldering_ , and popping off his other shoe _slowly_ , and then his fingers flex around the buttons of his shirt and Eddie almost has an aneurysm on the spot. 

“What the fu— are you taking off your shirt? What the fuck is _happening_?” 

Richie just chuckles, already two buttons down. “C’mon Eds, I know this game.” 

“What _game_?” 

“The game of…” Richie unhooks the last button. Spreads open his shirt to reveal a white tank underneath. Rubs a solid line across the meat of his clothed thigh. “...seduction.”

Eddie sees red. And then blue. And then a bunch of other colors, all swirled together in a janky kaleidoscope, and then Eddie’s breath starts to come in panicked little puffs, because… _what_?

Undeterred, Richie peels off his outer shirt, and Eddie’s eyes stick on the bulge of his arms. Not necessarily muscle, but a nice spread of skin and hair, pleasing through all the commotion in Eddie’s brain. The colors seem to fade in favor of the points of Richie’s nipples, the give of his belly, the clench of his fingers as he continues undressing.

But that’s not the point, _Eddie._

“What— ss— you’re _seducing_ me?” Eddie sputters. “Right— right now?” 

For the first time since coming in, Richie’s hands give pause. His sly grin falls a little when he blurts, “You started it!” 

“I—”

“I’m just following your lead, dude!”

Eddie’s heart almost stops. “My… my lead? What are you _talking_ about?” 

“Oh, c’mon,” Richie laughs, crossing his arms, his shirt stuck firmly in one hand. Eddie hesitates, tempted to look away, because Richie’s arms have always looked fucking amazing pushed together like that, and the added sight of his pecs stretching at the fabric right above them is almost more obscene than Eddie’s naked body poking through this blanket. 

“C’mon what!”

Richie’s eyes go all heavy, the lids sneaking down further over the blue of his irises, and it’s only then Eddie notices his dark, blown pupils. He takes a step toward where Eddie is shivering and says, low and breathy, “I caught your little show, Eds.” 

The center of Eddie’s chest starts up a vicious pitter-patter. No. No no no. 

“My—”

Richie nods. “Your one man all-out burlesque.” 

Holy _shit_. 

“You’re— please tell me you’re kidding,” Eddie groans, and it pulls an amorphous laugh from Richie’s chest. Richie’s broad chest— his hair sticking teasingly up from the low dip of his shirt, and Richie— Richie _saw_ him. 

Eddie’s not going to make it to the wedding. He’s going to have to bury himself somewhere in Central Park. 

“It was unconventional, but I can’t say it didn’t work.” Richie’s still got the tinge of a laugh coloring his voice, and the truth of it all chills Eddie down to the bone. 

He saw. He _saw_. Fuck Stan. Fuck Mike. Fuck Ariana Grande, most of all. He shivers again. 

“You could have just invited me over, but I guess you got your point across either way.” 

Eddie blinks away the embarrassment and realizes what Richie’s saying to him. 

“You thought I was dancing _for_ you?” he asks, finally able to creak out a smile, just as Richie’s falls off his face, because he… he did! Richie thought Eddie stripped down naked and put on a show for him. 

“Um.” Richie’s face bleeds a shade of beet red. “...no.” 

“You thought I was _dancing for you_!” Eddie yelps, happily. 

“I did not,” Richie insists, eyes darting around the room. It’s Richie’s turn to be humiliated, and Eddie’s not going to give this opportunity up lightly. 

“You _flipped_ your shoes off.” Eddie points to Richie’s chest. “You were about to go for the pants next!” 

Richie’s arms come up to cover where his nipples are tormenting Eddie. “That was unrelated.” 

“Unrelate— oh my _god_ you called it a seduction, you dipshit,” Eddie cackles, gripping tighter around the blanket so it doesn’t go sliding to the floor in his mirth. Not that it would matter, evidently: Richie’s seen the whole “show.” There’s nothing left to hide. 

Eddie laughs and laughs, the tips of his fingers and toes going numb, the heady mixture of Richie’s bouncing eyes and sputtering excuses striking something hot through Eddie’s chest. Because Richie saw him naked. And then sprinted across the street to follow up on that thought. 

Richie was _up_ for it. 

Eddie’s not sure what took him so long— has he been interested this whole _time_? Through all those nights together, group dates and dinners and evenings on the couch when Eddie would let his hand slide a little too close to Richie’s thigh and Richie would shift away like he’d crossed some sort of boundary? Maybe in a clearer-cut, lower stakes situation, it would make Eddie mad. And yeah, maybe he’s seething deep down somewhere, but right now, it doesn’t really fucking matter. Not with Richie half naked and practically drooling. 

Not when Eddie’s got all this handed to him on a silver platter of idiocy.

So he gives the blanket a little slack, letting it slide down over his shoulders. It bares most of his chest now, pooling around his waist and peeking out the point of his hip. It feels a bit much, but— well. Hopefully Richie will get the clue. Eddie’s far beyond being coy now that Richie’s seen him dancing. He won’t even dance in front of Beverly, and she’s seen him covered in tears and snot, cowered over a toilet bowl and dry heaving tequila shots.

Richie’s jaw drops, his arms falling to dangle at his side, and Eddie figures it’s working like a charm. 

“Uh, Eds.” He fits a fist to his mouth, clearing his throat. “There’s a lot of. Uh. Holes in that thing. I can kinda... see. Some things.” 

Eddie groans, sick of being one-upped by circumstances, and throws the blanket to the ground. 

“There,” he huffs, staring down at his own soft cock, his hairy legs, his wiry little chest where his nipples are pointed up in the cold. “You’re not getting an encore performance but I _mmmpfh_ —”

Richie’s clear across the room, fast, tongue-first, plundering, grabbing, hot and rasping; Eddie wraps his arms around Richie’s neck and accepts everything he gives and then some. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he lets Richie hear, lets Richie feel, because they’re so _close_ , and it feels like the cementing of something they’ve been onto for so long; something they’ve brushed past and left dormant, like they were waiting for this moment, this stupid fucking moment of misunderstanding that neither of them were willing to let go by any longer. Richie licks at the back of Eddie’s teeth. Eddie squeezes at the soft of Richie’s biceps. Richie skates a hand down to pull at the hair leading to Eddie’s cock. Eddie gasps and whimpers into his mouth and wants and wants and _wants_.

And _fuck_ , it feels good. It feels overwhelming. It feels like everything he’s been looking for. 

“Please,” Richie breathes against him, hot onto his tongue, and Eddie answers with a sharp, quick bite to his collarbone. He’s getting hard now, and he feels Richie pressed up against him in a similar state, the wet patch on his pants cold on Eddie’s thigh. 

“Why are you— did you jerk off on your way over or something?” Eddie fingers at the spot, inches away from Richie’s cock. Richie’s eyelashes flutter with the interruption.

“No, I— ah. I was rudely interrupted while watering my plants by a ridiculous set of abs—” and he pinches at Eddie’s middle. Eddie squeals and lunges forward for another kiss, but Richie pulls back just as fast.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Richie mouths into him, hands flying up and down Eddie’s bare back, and Eddie grunts through the spread of goosebumps to try and listen. Richie’s lips shine red and bitten, so Eddie leans back into feel them, but Richie sputters against him, pushing an inch between them again. “I said _wait_.”

“What the fuck, why?”

Richie’s eyes cast down, and Eddie prepares himself for some long, emotional speech about their friendship, or their bond of _trust_ , or this ruining something between them. But Richie clears his throat again, a mark already blooming on his throat where Eddie took a bite.

“Can we fuck on the balcony?”

Eddie deflates like air out of a tire. “Are you fucking kidding? You stopped us for _that_?”

“It’s always been a dream of mine!” Richie throws his arms in the air, so Eddie mirrors him. His cock bounces comically against his abs. Richie’s eyes flick there and Eddie feels like he’s been hit by a train.

“ _Always_? We moved in less than a year ago.” 

Richie squints. “Okay, it’s a broad definition of _always_ , but Stan is away! This might be our only chance!” 

“Hey, I live here too,” Eddie says, optimistically. Richie fixes him with a look.

“Yeah, like you can overrule Stan’s no sex on the balcony rule. Even Mike can’t overrule him and have you _seen_ Mike?” 

Eddie purses his lips, thinking. He’s got a point. 

“Fine,” he says, yanking the blanket off the floor and heading to the bathroom for supplies. Richie cheers, giddy and half-naked, flushed and gorgeous, and Eddie wonders how much trouble this fucking idiot is going to get him in, now that he’s got access to it all. 

**

Richie Tozier is in heaven. 

Not only is he currently being felt up by the hottest guy on the planet, which is, on its own, quite the world-ruiner, quite the trip to the stars, _quite_ an impressive feat, considering it’s something he’s low-key been attempting since puberty and high-key been wishing for since before then; but he’s also groping and groaning and lipping and loving with Eddie _fucking_ Kaspbrak, man of his dreams, on Stanley Uris’ beautiful balcony. 

He says a little prayer, wishing it off into the stars, hoping that Stanley the Manley, up there on his international, first-class flight (snob) feels a little tingle on the back of his neck and knows— just _knows_ — that Richie Tozier is about to get fucked on his balcony. Or maybe he’ll be doing the fucking. He’s got a preference tonight, but honestly, Richie is the furthest thing from picky right now. 

He’s got Eddie Kaspbrak sucking at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, the back of his hair all stuck up from Richie’s fingers, sporting an ambitious erection Richie genuinely hopes to get in his mouth, or his hand, or— cross your fucking fingers and toes that trip to the bathroom was comprehensive, Tozier— his _ass_ , and it’s all for him. All of his wishes have already come true. 

Eddie pops off with a loud gasp, but Richie doesn’t give him a second to recover, just latches their mouths together, and Eddie whimpers his appreciation. Richie swallows it up, licking at his bottom lip— it’s his favorite spot, for now, other than Eddie’s perky little nipples, or his patchy-haired thighs, or the soft skin on the undercurve of his ass. He’s barely touched on half of what Eddie has to give and it’s all his fucking favorite.

He wants it all. 

“What— what do you wanna do, or like… uh,” Richie says before they’ve pulled out of the kiss fully, and he feels Eddie’s lips ghost a laugh. “What do you like, man? I just wanna—”

“You’re the one who stormed over here!” Eddie shoves hard at his arms, but Richie doesn’t move an inch. The Kaspbrak Special. 

Richie’s whole chest statics over with happiness, and disbelief— the kid who used to jump on the back of Richie’s bike, or pull him by the hand into the quarry, or pinch hard at his arm when he did too many impressions is now pulling him closer, gripping him tight, kissing into the center of his chest and giggling, too, and Richie doesn’t have to turn away to blush. He can do it right here, right between them. 

“You were the one shaking your ass for the whole neighborhood to see!” 

And even _that_ doesn’t get Eddie to pull away. Richie really must’ve won the karmic jackpot tonight. Maybe it’s all these years putting up with Stan. 

“Only the creepy ones,” Eddie says, jabbing his elbow sideways until it meets Richie’s arm. Richie snorts. 

“You could’ve at least turned the fucking _lights off_.”

Eddie moves in close, whispers warm into the night air, right against the shell of Richie’s ear.

“You fucking _liked_ it.” 

It shoots right to Richie’s cock, stuck up and trapped in his stupid drawstring pants— he really should’ve changed, but he didn’t want to press his luck getting spruced up when he thought Eddie might be up for it. Besides, Eddie’s right. He really fucking liked it. 

He garbles out, “Mmmhuh-huh,” which he thinks gets his point across. 

“There aren’t even many people out tonight,” Eddie says, off-hand, pulling at the edge of Richie’s pants, and it takes Richie a second to realize he’s trying to take them off. For some reason, for _some reason_ , Richie hesitates, and it makes Eddie bite his lip, his eyes chewing over the pause like he’s reading something in Richie’s head that even Richie can’t get ahold of. 

“While you were on your way over here,” Eddie muses, tracing the line of Richie’s belly hair up to his chest, “what were you imagining might happen?” 

Eddie rolls the flat skin of Richie’s nipple until it hardens. 

“Um.” 

“You saw _everything_ ,” Eddie reminds him, eyes darting between them. “You saw my dick.” 

“Sure did,” Richie squeaks. Eddie takes the moment to lift up Richie’s shirt, pulling it off over his head, and Richie feels the warm night air drift in the gap between them. 

“And you came running over here,” Eddie says. The questioning arch of his eyebrow is right in Richie’s face, but Richie’s mouth has ceased all operations.

It’s not like he doesn’t want to tell him; it’s not like a whole litany of fantasies normally tucked away in his spank bank aren’t currently on vivid replay in his head. It’s just that Eddie is _right there_ , and _asking_ , and no matter how imaginative Richie can be, he never really saw this one coming true. So instead of pouring out his heart— instead of saying something like _I wanted to kiss you until you couldn’t breathe_ , or _I wanted to touch you so badly I almost burst into tears when I had to stop for a red light on the way over_ , or _I wanted you to lay me down and block out the rest of the world so we can forget everything else but how well the two of us fit_ — he musters up all his courage and blurts:

“I wanted you to fuck me with your giant dick.” 

Eddie stares for one, endless, humiliating second, his hands restless and a little bit sweaty right above Richie’s hips, before snorting himself into laughter, scrunching up his nose and forehead like he’s tasted something sour. He gasps a delighted, “Well, fuck, tell me how you really feel,” and Richie takes the chance to reel him back in by the shoulders and pins himself between Eddie’s shaking, giggling body and the stone wall of the balcony. 

“You fuckin’ _asked_ , dude,” Richie says into his mouth, but he’s laughing too. It’s unfamiliar, laughing into a kiss, and that would make him feel some sort of something if he weren’t currently ready to kneel down and get Eddie’s dick wet on his own, ready to slip inside him. And Eddie would probably _let_ him. 

“You’re right, good job.” Eddie smacks a kiss onto Richie neck, his chest, the rounded point of his chin. 

“Sooo…” Richie’s eyes flick back and forth between Eddie’s— asking, pleading, trying to psychically convince, whatever is necessary to get the beautiful, curved cock pressed against him where it truly belongs. Fucking deep into him, fast, hard, slow, careful, whatever the fuck Eddie wants. Richie just wants _Eddie._

Eddie blinks, licking over his lips, and then groans out, “Oh, fuck, yeah, let’s do that.” 

And Richie whips his pants off so fast he almost loses them to the balcony wind. 

**

Normally, Eddie wouldn’t be so flagrant about a disobeying a very well-established house-rule. 

But if he knew he would have a chance to press Richie Tozier into the heavy-duty half-wall that surrounds the perimeter, taste the sweat dripping down his pale, twisting back, writhe his cock into the crease under Richie’s thigh, and stretch him open, one finger at a time while he moans his satisfaction into the quiet night air, Eddie probably wouldn’t have agreed to the house-rule in the first place. 

Richie’s got a few inches on him — in height only, and if this continues ( _fuck_ , Eddie wants it to continue), that’s a fact Eddie’s never going to let Richie forget — so Eddie’s got good access to the dip and curve of Richie’s back, smothering his face into the space between his shoulder-blades and whispering his praises. Richie’s always been sweaty, and Eddie’s always secretly loved it; he’s sweaty, but he smells amazing, like pine needles and flowery detergent, and Eddie wants to smell it on his pillow in the morning like he wants to fuck Richie over the side of this balcony for the whole world to see.

The thought burns at him, so he spreads his fingers, working up a good rhythm as Richie unravels for him.

“Fuck, _fuck_ , another,” Richie pants.

“Hold your horses, you just got to two.”

Richie whines. Bucks his hips. “I want it.” 

“You want _me_ ,” Eddie corrects him with a smirk and a good tonguing. 

“Yes, Eds,” Richie says, pushing back as Eddie obliges him. “Yeah, I want you, want you in me so bad.” 

“You want everyone to see.”

“Yeah,” Richie nods, his curly hair falling out of sight as his head dangles between where his arms are propped up on the edge. “Do it, I’m ready.”

Eddie hisses. “You are _not_.” 

“I’m fucking ready!” Richie whirls around, his eyes mean yet foggy. “Don’t police my body!” 

“I _told_ Bev getting you that shirt as a joke was not a good idea,” Eddie says, removing his fingers to Richie’s chagrin, but lubing up his dick in turn. His heart pounds as Richie cranes farther forward, shifting his hips back. Eddie takes a step back, too, trying to accommodate their height difference and nearly slipping on the ground in haste. He wants this so fucking bad he’s _shaking_. 

Richie turns his head back. “Y’okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah—”

“You getting cold feet now that you know people are watching?” Richie smirks. He nods out at the rows of apartments in front of them, all various states of lit up and powered down. Eddie thinks of Todd, the guy he flirted with when Richie moved in. He thinks of the lady with the little dog he sometimes sees when he visits. He thinks of his fucking _dentist_ , who lives two whole buildings over, but the balcony lights are bright, and what the fuck does Eddie know about his dentist’s eyesight? It could be impeccable and—

“Wow, you really _are_ freaking out,” Richie says, and only then does Eddie realize how fast his heart is beating, and how it probably has only a little to do with the fact that he’s holding his dick and attempting to lead it into Richie’s ass. 

“I’m not—” 

“Eds,” Richie says, suddenly serious, and when Eddie looks up, even through the dark, he can see Richie’s eyes. “Want you to fuck me.”

Eddie takes a deep breath. “Yeah?” 

A genuine, raw smile stretches at Richie’s mouth. Eddie doesn’t even let him answer, just takes the steps forward to lick over his dumb, ridiculous lips and tease his entrance with his bare, leaking cock. 

Because Richie had nixed the condom. He’d knelt down for several minutes to slip his mouth around the head of Eddie’s cock, drooling and groaning until Eddie could feel it shake his rib-cage.

Because Richie had been the first to press his own finger inside, to show Eddie exactly what he wanted, while Eddie watched on with wide, hungry eyes. Eddie had to stop touching himself in the process, afraid he’d go off too soon, wanting to give Richie all he was worth. 

Because Richie gasps a desperate, “ _Please_ ,” as soon as Eddie gives him the chance to speak, broken apart by just a kiss. “Please, I want you inside me.” 

And because, _fuck_ , Eddie wants that, too. 

Richie hisses, deeper and longer, when Eddie starts to press inside, tight and clinging around him like a fucking glove. Eddie tries to keep his shit together, but he’s _loud_ and he knows it. He feels the whole point of the universe pulsing between them, and it’s as excruciating as it is mind-blowing, so he bellows out a groan. Richie hiccups a half-laugh, taking it inch by inch, and Eddie sees another light flick on across the street. It kicks his adrenaline up another notch.

“God, _fuck_ , you’re huge,” Richie manages once Eddie’s fully bottomed-out. Eddie laughs, and Richie moans for the both of them. 

“Guess you didn’t get a good enough look.”

“Well, it was moving around a lot,” Richie says, then gasps when Eddie tries to shift inside. He’d love to just stay here, feeling Richie suck him deeper inside until they’re completely lost. “It was basically a pink blur. I just estimated. And then you dropped the blanket and all the mystery was gone.” 

Eddie drags back. Pulls out an inch and watches Richie squirm. Sucks a spot right below the wing of Richie’s shoulderblade, just to distract himself. He’s been close since Richie bent over and bared his ass, spreading himself open until Eddie could see a peek of his hole. His mouth had watered at the sight, but he set forth on a different mission, since Richie was practically begging for his dick. But next time— he’s eating Richie into the wall for at least half an hour. 

“Fuck, you feel good,” Eddie breathes into Richie’s neck, lipping sentiments into his skin, reveling in the wet cling of their hips together.

“You _feel_ —” Eddie thumbs around Richie’s rim, pressing at where they’re connected just to hear the noises it pulls from Richie. “Fuck, fuck—”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, yeah—”

Eddie wets his lips and starts to thrust. “Everyone can see us, Rich.” 

And Richie _grooooans._

Eddie laughs, pulling out until the head stretches Richie’s entrance, then pushing back in with one quick movement. He does it again, and again, and _again_ , because Richie sounds so beautiful, groaning and grappling for him, reaching back and gripping the fuzzy hair of Eddie’s thighs, and Eddie goes _harder_ until their skin is slapping together. 

“You think they can hear us?” he asks, and Richie coughs, clenches, pumps his hips back. 

“Fuck, I hope.”

“Hear me fucking the life out of you,” Eddie gasps. Richie hangs his head; Eddie slaps his ass on a whim. 

“Oh _fuck_ , you’re a fucking revelation,” Richie says, so Eddie does it again, the crude smack of his palm ringing in his ears. Richie’s panting like a dog in its wake, and there are several sets of meandering faces in the windows across the street, which is urging them both on in levels of desperation. But Eddie wants to watch Richie come apart. Wants to touch his cock; wants it to rub against his stomach while he fucks him hard. 

“Let’s turn around,” Eddie tells him, already pulling out and at Richie’s hips.

Richie yelps when he’s met with the outdoor furniture. Eddie sincerely hadn’t considered their options but—

“Stan’s _lounge chair_.” 

Richie flops down like a naked, hairy ragdoll, stretching his legs and wiggling his toes and most likely smearing lube and Eddie’s pre-come all over the cushions of Stan’s favorite chair. 

“Oh shit.” Eddie had watched Stan eagle-eye anyone who touched it when they took it off the U-Haul nine months ago— their beloved cat of six years had gotten less attention on moving day. 

But then Richie bends his knees up to his chest, his long, thick cock nudging into the give of his belly, his hole shiny and enticing, and chuckles a giddy, “Look at this angle! Perfecto, Edward!” and Eddie resigns himself to being the worst roommate in the bunch. His knees find the ground so quick that the concerning click of Eddie’s bone-on-stone dries up the rest of Richie’s laughter. 

“What’re—”

And Eddie licks a straight line from hole to taint, pressing his nose in the space below Richie’s balls. The scent is strong and a little gross, but a gross Eddie fucking _likes_ — the mix of lube and _Richie_ and his hand finds the back of Richie’s thigh to hold him steady where he’s trembling. Eddie moves back down to tongue Richie’s rim. Richie’s chest heaves, his fingers snapping down to hold at the back of Eddie’s head, not pushing, just feeling, and Eddie slips the tip inside where his cock was just filling him. 

“ _Hah_ , Eddie, _fuck_ , yes,” Richie’s saying on a loop, groaning his appreciation in the empty spaces. Eddie’s own noises are muffled into Richie’s ass, but apparently not well enough. 

“Shut the fuck _up_!” someone yells from the distance. 

They both freeze; Richie half-way through a groan and Eddie half-way through pressing his tongue back inside. Richie peers down between his legs and shrugs at Eddie, which Eddie finds stupidly endearing, so he finishes his thought, and adds a finger to boot. Richie squirms beneath him, but doesn’t make a sound. 

Eddie fucks his tongue in and out to change that, but Richie just bites his lip, and Eddie wants to _lose_ it on him. The roaring, overwhelming need swells his chest until he’s sitting back up, grabbing hold of Richie’s bony ankles in his hands. His own cock bounces up and Richie watches it, his mouth hanging open, his hair a sweaty, stringy mess all over his forehead and the pillow of the chair. 

Eddie’s so fucking gone on him he can barely breathe, so he turns his head, hungry for something, _anything_ to curb this pounding _want_ in his brain, and chomps his teeth down onto the bite of Richie’s ankle. 

“Eddie, holy fuck—”

And he doesn’t stop there: Eddie licks around the circle of his heel, down the sole of his foot, shifting his hold so he’s got the meat of Richie’s calves pressed tight in his palms. Richie’s scent fills his nostrils, the feel of his skin, the shaking groan of all of his muscles, vibrating up through his bones. His eyes are wide and dark as he watches Eddie ravage his feet, one of his hands still held up in the air like he’s waving, his toes flinching with every flick of Eddie’s tongue. 

Eddie loves him. 

_Shit_ , Eddie loves him. 

It blinks out his brain for a second, but he stuffs it away just as quickly. Not now. There’s a whole slew of reasons why he shouldn’t tell Richie he loves him _right now_. They haven’t talked, they haven’t agreed to anything, they haven’t even said they _like_ each other. 

So Eddie does what every mature adult does when they’re trying to avoid the fact that they’re in love with their best friend: he takes three of Richie’s toes into his mouth and _sucks_. The resulting groan from Richie is enough to shut up Eddie’s brain for the next few hours, at least. He licks at the nubs of them, at the webbing between, popping off and kissing at the pad of Richie’s foot before doing it all again. 

He can hold himself together. He’s gonna be fine. This can be casual. 

“Eddie,” Richie breathes, wiggling his ass further down the chair until he can reach for Eddie’s cock. Then he gathers his own along with it, wrapping a big hand around them both, squeezing, the street lights shining in his eyes, and Eddie is suddenly, completely blown apart by how in love he is. 

Fuck. 

**

Richie already loved every single thing he knew about Eddie Kaspbrak. How he always counts his tic tacs to make sure he has an even amount. How he gripes at Richie for clogging the trash chute with pizza boxes when he comes to visit. How he _always_ gets furious on game night, but is the first to congratulate the winner with a begrudged smile. 

But now Eddie’s kneeling carefully between Richie’s legs on the chair, shining down at him and growling out a rough, “Watch out, big guy,” and Richie wonders if his chest is cracking open with how much he feels. 

Eddie slides in slowly this time, and Richie savors every moment, giving way to him as he climbs in closer, until his whole body floats above Richie’s, his breath panting damp against where he’s mouthing into Richie’s nipple. Richie tightens his fingers to hold his legs up, the angle _perfect_ , just like he thought. When Eddie starts to move, Richie shakes his head. 

“Stop, stop, can you just—”

“What?” Eddie peers between them, panicked. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, _fuck_ , no, I just— can you… stay? Here? Just for, like, a sec?” Richie moves his hand to Eddie’s ass, keeping him still, keeping him inside. His ankles rest on Eddie’s shoulders and Richie shivers with the knowledge that Eddie can keep him folded in half without much effort. 

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes, his forehead gone wrinkly, his lips curling and shiny with his own spit. “Yeah, I got you.” 

“Yeah,” Richie groans, and laughs, and sobs, just a little, “yeah, you do.” 

Richie clenches around the intrusion, around Eddie’s cock where it’s stilled inside him. He feels so full; so perfectly completed, like he has before, but with an added layer of safety, because this is _Eddie_. Eddie, staring at him like he’s feeling something of the same. So Richie cranes up and kisses him. 

Eddie stutters his hips, whimpering into Richie’s mouth, so Richie wiggles his hips best he can until Eddie gets the clue to start moving. He knows neither of them are going to last long, and he wants Eddie to give it to him like he knows they both want. And once Eddie starts to move, he’s fucking in fast and hard, rubbing Richie’s cock beautifully between their stomachs. Richie’s head falls back against the pillow.

“That’s _so_ , _unf_ , soooo good.”

“I fuckin’ know,” Eddie laughs, driving in harder; Richie can’t tell which one of them is shaking, they’re held so tight together. 

“I’m gonna— fuck, I’m gonna come.”

“Me too,” Eddie pants, hiking Richie’s legs up until they’re secure. “You feel too good.” 

“Eddie,” Richie says again, the tingling in his spine, in his abdomen, fuzzing up and down the shaft of his cock, overcoming him, and he tries to shove a hand between them to paw at it until Eddie lifts up and does it for him. They’re rocking together so seamlessly, all curled together, rubbing and moaning and licking at wherever they can reach. 

“Richie,” Eddie groans. His hand is damp, it grips a little too hard, but Richie’s too close to care. He just needs the stimulation, he just needs Eddie to touch him, to keep fucking him, to keep— keep—

“ _I’mcomingI’mcomingI’mcoming_ —”

“ _Rich_ ,” Eddie pants, flicking his wrist fast over the head of Richie’s cock, colliding their hips until the chair is squeaking across the stone. “Come all over us, c’mon, wanna see it.”

And Richie’s coming, painting Eddie’s fingers and belly, his head foggy and numb through the waves of pleasure wracking the rest of his body. 

Eddie pushes in hard, grinding chaotically until Richie feels him go rigid; until Richie feels a wet bloom inside him, and he worms his shaking hand around their legs to finger at where they’re connected. It’s slippery and hot to the touch, and Eddie gives something like a snarl into his chest where he’s collapsed that makes his whole chest light up. 

Richie sighs, reluctantly extending his legs; Eddie massages them when he yelps in pain, and that almost sets him on to round two.

“I told you,” he says, instead.

“Hmmm?” Eddie snuffles into a kiss. 

Richie smiles, tracing a hand down Eddie’s cheek. He wants to say a lot, really, but maybe it can all wait. Who the fuck knows what this means right now. He just considers himself lucky that Eddie had a night alone in the apartment. For more than one reason.

“Balcony sex fucking rocks,” he says, smushing Eddie into another kiss before he can answer, but he still mumbles between them, wet and happy, yet still somehow threatening:

“Don’t you breathe a fucking _word_ , Tozier.”

**

Eddie’s mentally preparing to take the last of his boxes up the stairs— internally (and externally, just a little) cursing Richie for not alerting him to the routine elevator maintenance on the weekend he planned to move in— when the door swings open right in front of him, and Richie’s cute neighbor ( _Todd_ ) walks into the lobby. 

“Whoa,” Todd says, eyeing the exercise bike and framed painting of radishes Stan shoved into Eddie’s hands before Mike could see. “Picked the wrong weekend for moving, huh?” 

Eddie’s whole face flames up with anger. Who the fuck asked _this guy_?

He’s caked in sweat and dust and tiny little particles of cardboard and his throat is raspy and sore from directing his friends all day. It’s been about ten minutes since any of them have shown their faces back downstairs, which Eddie figures probably means they’ve cracked into the margaritas early without him. He knows he should be happy on this momentous day, ready to go up and party with his traitorous friends, but all he wants to do is take a shower and fall asleep on the couch. 

He bites away his gut retort of “You fucking _think so_?” and grins. 

“Tell me about it.” 

Todd smiles back at him, clearly unaware. His hair, a dark chestnut brown, is now almost shoulder-length, curled against his temple like Richie’s gets sometimes. And _actually_ — in a stupid pair of cargo shirts and a graphic tee — Todd looks an awful lot like Richie in general. 

Eddie wants to groan. Is he really that fucking obvious? 

Todd walks toward him, side-stepping to avoid the boxes.

“So you and Tozier shacking up?” 

Eddie blinks. “Oh… uh. Yeah.” He didn’t even know Todd knew Richie, but Richie talks to everyone. Todd clicks his tongue. 

“Shame.” He licks over his bared teeth, and Eddie’s stomach drops out. 

“Oh, uh.” He used to be so good at this, not that it really matters anymore. He’s got a live-in boyfriend rummaging around upstairs with cuter hair, a (slightly) better wardrobe and an ass that makes him see stars. 

Todd waves a hand between them. 

“Oh well,” he says, walking past Eddie to get to the door. “I’m not really into foot stuff, anyway.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you want to read another Friends fic I wrote try [The One with the Prom Video!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24936517)
> 
> Please leave me a comment if you're able, and as always, find me on Tumblr at [tinyangryeddie](https://tinyangryeddie.tumblr.com/) or Twitter, where I'm [camerasparring](https://twitter.com/camerasparring)!


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